All is Calm
by RedBarron
Summary: When a wish goes horribly wrong it threatens to tear Timmy's relationships asunder as his mind spirals out of control.
1. Chapter 1

Boom! Boom! Boom! The endless explosions came all around, throwing dirt and mud everywhere. Yells of agony and terror filled the air as thick as the smoke of a million bonfires that burnt into eternity, which were soon deafened by the roar of the cannons and the whistle of the shells.

The endless barrage rained down in countless numbers, consuming horse, man, and trench alike in a symphony of fulminating anguish that blinded the sun with earth and lead quickly funneling out of control. The men who were stricken were not to be saved; they were buried by the next volley which churned them into the barren earth, as another part of the conflict that seemingly stole men's souls in the night.

For, in due time, those who survived, found that their souls became as bleak and horrid as the land that stood before them. All seeds of hope and love were torn asunder, as each man languished on. Though they might survive, they were dead all the same. Never to know the peace or happiness or serenity as men who have not seen war. Grim faces, that had no remorse, no sadness, no feeling. They simply trotted on, deprived of their humanity, they became a tool and nothing more; as the guns they shot or the barbed wire which tore their skin. They were tools.

This den of woe and despair is not even meant for the most resolute of men, let alone a child. As a flower which blooms in spring, so too is this child, but as a late spring frost which makes ruin of the beautiful bloom, so too is its life is quickly stolen away, leaving only the withered and dead, whose harvest then shall bear no fruit. Darkness is left then as a reminder, but not one often heard.

One must wonder if it is foolishness or folly or innocence, which drives boys to war. To fight for a spirit of enduring which they, so young in life, had neither recognition nor erudition of. It is a mystery long pondered and commenced upon. To some, they are bored, going to have fun, to others the allurement of the uniform, still others the sense of duty to their land which compels them onward. Whichever one or any it may be, the drums of war still beat, still ring onward. Its hypnotic intonation rings about the hearts of men, and wherever it goes it rings the cry of death to which men so jubilantly flock, to the ever beating drums of war.

It would evermore be as thus, but one participant was their like all the others, on his free will. But the method in which he arrived was inadvertent plight which landed him among the perils of a godforsaken war in the godforsaken hell of no man's land. This young man found himself lying in a crater, dug by an artillery shell, with his rifle by his side trying to, like a mole; dig his face into the ground for protection. His hands quacked as his held his helmet with all the force of his being, causing them to turn a crimson red, as the bombs and shells fell all around.

His stone gray uniform was muddied and wet though relatively fresh in nature, which was extremely rare in the nightmarish reality of the trenches. Fully equipped with ammo bags, leather knapsack, canteen, and two stick grenades on his belt, he was an intimidating sight for anyone in the enemy trenches. Forming the elite group of soldiers known as the _Sturmtruppen _or Storm troopers, their primary task was to run headlong against overwhelming power at the enemy's impediment then to lob their grenades to destroy the machine guns and weaken their entrenchments, and finally serve as the forlorn hope until the main infantry arrived. It required an enormous amount of fortitude or audacity or recklessness, or maybe a little of all three. All those were things that this particular private did not posses.

He yelled in bewilderment as the cascade of explosions rocked the earth around him, deafening his cry of panic to the wind. And then, all became silent. Not rifle, nor pistol, not a bird, nor a voice could be heard. And a breathless calm overcame the trenches as the fog of the shelling lingered in the low places, blanketing the area with a white cloud which cast eerie shadows upon the wreckage of iron and barbed wire that stood across no man's land.

The private looked around, his heart ready to burst from his chest, at the foreboding nothingness that surrounded him. For a moment the waves calmed into a gentle swell that soothed the private's mind. He turned onto his back to see light smoke travel overhead, whisking a brief lull. His mind drifted as he tried to remember … how he had go there in the first place, _where was home?_ He didn't know for sure, but he remembered the gentle caress of the grass, and the taste of fresh water, and feeling of warmth which was never a comfort in the always flooded trenches. He embraced the sky and thought of the feeling of love, which he hadn't known to be so worth wile.

His mind drifted over a sea which turned into a torrent when a sharp whistle broke over the silence. "Gas!" was the cry that sent the trenches into a fury of fumbling and panic. Trepidation like no other before swept the Private's every being. He felt at last, his life taken away, his every fiber twitched in anger and ferocity and fear all of which gripped him all at once and sent him into a blind frenzy of confusion.

His primal instincts took over, he jumped from the foxhole into the emptiness of no man's land, running toward the enemy lines, not understanding or comprehending what he was doing, yelling and spattering incoherently as he ran full speed into a line of barbed wire and there he sat. Entangled and in agony at the grinding of the pricks tore his skin off his bone. Close enough for the enemy to rid him of his misery but denied a quick death because of the fog which obscured everything around. He struggled to lose himself, tearing himself rapidly until he finally freed himself.

He turned and ran; ran to the place he had come. His feet became heavier, his mind distorted, and his throat and mouth start to burn until it progressively choked his living being. He grasped his throat as he raised one arm to heaven as his body crumpled on the ground. Pain consumed him as he became blind, breathing out his last gulps of sickening convulsions alone. Life strangled away and all became dark around him…

_I know it's out there but the next chapter will make sense._


	2. Chapter 2

Voices floated all around him. Silent soft voices, indiscernible and masked, much like the darkness that surrounded his thoughts. Everything went very slowly, every thought, vision, process, all of which had no comprehension of what was happening. A faint light comes to view, it's bright and inviting. It narrows down on a horizon and becomes brighter, engulfing from all sides, until the entire realm was light. He made an inhale so hard it brought him to the apex of the light and descend.

Timmy arched his back on his bed as his fiercely inhaled, trying to squeeze the precious air in all at once. He sprang from his bed and cough violently, spitting up saliva and finally vomiting in the trash can near his bed. He collapsed on the floor, only wearing his boxers, still feeling quite nauseated and frail. The rays of sunshine glaring through the window on to his face, as he lay on side panting to catch his voice. His back hit the floor with a dull thud, trying to soothe the burning sensation in his throat from lack of water. In a bid of desperation he sprang from the ground, only to have his eyesight overcome with darkness from his high blood pressure. He grasped the table for a moment then regained his eyesight. Hands trembling he scooped up water from the fish bowl and threw it on his face, before falling on his bed in exhaustion.

As he lay trembling his trusted god parents appeared to see what had happened. Cosmo floated over to the bed, bearing a wide smile, and chirped in his ear as annoyingly as possible, "Hey, Timmy, How did it go?"

Timmy grabbed his windpipe violently, pulling his head towards him to look him in the eyes, "Don't…ever…do…that…again" he seethed vehemently.

"Lighten up, Timmy. I thought you wished to know what the Word War One was like."

"I was doing a project! It's something you say under you voice, I didn't really want to go! I was also killed by Gas!" He yelled, clearly showing his despondency.

Wanda motioned her hands down, "Calm down, you're fine, you were in no real danger, Timmy. It's all over now. You're at home, you're safe."

Timmy's demeanor mellowed then, and his voice became meek and mild. "You're right, Wanda. Sorry Cosmo."

"Is there anything I can get you, sport?" Wanda asked her most sympathetic voice.

"Nah," Timmy whisked his hand, "Just a few moments alone, please." And, with a flash of their wands, they were gone.

Timmy spent the next few moments, his head on his palms thinking about his experience, trying desperately to console him, anything to settle his mind, but no enough comfort to lay his head down. His alarm clock started beeping its faint siren, heralding that 7 o'clock had arrived and that another day of school was on its way. Timmy waited, hesitant at having to move from his comfort position, until he finally mustered up the will power to hit the off button on the alarm clock.

He dragged himself from his bed to the closet to get dressed thinking only of a few things. _Should I tell anyone? No, no one would believe you. But what do I do? Ignore it, pretend as though nothing happened. But I'm so stressed. Just get through the day and you'll forget about it._

So the inner dialogue continued, dragging the heavy questions and formulating a plan of action to go on. By the time he stopped thinking he was fully dressed and was feeling better, his spirits were lifted higher when he was a bluebird perched on his window seal. He let a smile creep on his face as for a moment he didn't have care in the world. He proceeded down the stairs from his upper loft, that's when he descended back again.

It was nothing special. It was nothing wrong. It was something most people do every day, but to Timmy it was shattering. As he came down the stairs his father was leaving for work out the door. "Bye, honey. See you after work." At which point he closed the door quite normally but it resounded with a knolling: Bang! Timmy by this point had reached the last steps. When he heard the door, he sprang from the step landing on the floor then sliding on the rug, causing him to fall to the ground.

His mom came running in from the kitchen to see what had just happened. She saw Timmy on the floor and without hesitation asked: "Timmy, are you alright?"

Timmy pulled himself off the floor brushing off his shirt, "Yeah I'm fine. Dad just caught me a little off guard."

"Well, your father does have a way with slamming the door, which I've told him several times to stop. Are you sure you're okay?"

"It's cool, mom." He said. Giving her a smile and picking up his charisma. He didn't want to show that he did it because he was ducking for cover.

Outside the school bus pulled to a stop, "Whoops, sorry mom, going to be late. Catch ya later! Bye!" he said running out the door.

His mother waved out the window as he jogged to the school bus and climbed aboard and took his assigned seat. He was very much distressed, besides his outward appearance. What had caused him to jump was not a normal reaction, it was his reflexes. And it one door closing could cause it, what else might? On the ride to school he didn't talk to anyone, he looked blankly out the window watching suburbia which he had seen many times roll by in a blur.

When he arrived at the school he breathed deeply. Seeing the normal, everyday things of life, he walked on, taking it one step at a time until he was inside the school. The hallways were relatively empty, only a few people walking in various directions. The bell had not rung for first class; hence the students had a "free time." Either, they hung out with others outside or ate or went to the library. The latter was almost never done by anyone who had any concern about their appearances. The bell rang it sharp note signaling the first class. Timmy cursed under his breath. The sound had put him guard but now he had missed Breakfast again. He proceeded to class, he never went to his locker because it was too far out of the way to be of any use, which is why he carried around all his books.

But, as he proceeded down the hall, the warning bells ring. The large mass of students, all starting slamming their locker, making countless metal thuds resonate down the hall. Timmy froze where he was and held his ears as he was transported back into the muddied hole. The thuds became and explosions and racked his nerves to end. He fell into the floor and formed into a fetal position of the floor, sobbing uncontrollably as everyone around him went on with their everyday lives. _When would it end?_

_Two chapters in one day, I felt I needed to. It wouldn't make sense otherwise._


	3. Chapter 3

On a bleak and horrid night, as a storm howled and the rain poured, all alone a figure floated silently and consciously across the awkward wooden corridors of the motionless suburban abode, moving in stride, but not in great haste. Its path illuminated through the narrow sanctum by the flashes of the celestial powers which cracked fiercely through the sky to lighten all the land in one brief second of magnificent brilliance, guiding it on its way, then casting the darkest shadows upon them again.

The boards of plastic creaked as burst of winds pounded against the house, muting the being's movement as it climbed heavily up the stairs. It paused for a moment and looked out the window above the door to see the blinding rays of another lightning bolt contrast everything in the darkness into black and white, gazing in wonder at the phenomenon, then turning towards its ascending height, not wanting to tarry. It breathed a moment, hanging its head down on its shoulders as its arm grasped the railing for support and began moving up the stairs again.

When it reached the summit of its apprehensive endeavors it spied down the hall and saw a faint light gleaming underneath one of the doors. Curious and intrigued that one of the inhabitants of the house could be up at this hour, it quietly transversed the distant down the hall to the door to investigate this happening, not knowing who it could be occupying the room from where the translucent light emerged. Knowing the room was an add-on in which there had recently been built as a library of sorts for everyone's use. This it mind, it could be anyone. It took a deep breath through its nostrils and turned the knob, slowly opening the door to reveal an unexpected sight. On the wall, farthest from the door, surrounded by book shelves, there was a writing desk, and on the writing desk, was Timmy, leaning far over the with a candle burning over him as he silently glanced over an unsightly large book which looked exactly like the ones that adorned the shelves.

As it peered through slender crevice of the opened door, Timmy's weary voice harkened from the vast expanse of the room to address it, "Come, in." The words were said shortly. It puckered its lower lip nervously as it pushed the door aside to enter into the chamber.

"Timmy, is there any reason you're not in bed?"

Timmy turned himself rearward to see it face to face. The candle casted large and disfigured shadows upon his features causing them to be hardly recognizable to anyone not accustomed to seeing him. But through the faint light several things could discerned by the intrusive visitor. The bags under his eyes were darker, his cheeks had become slightly hollowed, and his brow wrinkles, though still faint, had become more defined. His condition was the looks of a weary person who now stared reluctantly back at his guest through the gleaming darkness of the room, now resembling a tragic scene of a person who was consumed by his own thoughts.

Timmy shrugged, and looked to one side explaining, "I couldn't sleep, ya know, because of the storm…I thought…reading a little might help. Why, Wanda?"

"I don't know Timmy, this isn't the first time you've stayed up late, I'm just wondering if you get enough sleep?"

Timmy nodded his head slightly, "Yeah, it's just sometimes I'm restless, when it's too quite or too loud. Reading helps my mind lull."

"But, Timmy, you've never read books. Why now?"

"The TV is too loud. It would wake Mom and Dad. And besides, some of these are…actually…pretty good."

Wanda gave a perplexed look to what he had just said, extending her lower lip to show she was pondering if she understood what he had just said. It was as in a moment she realized, that the Timmy who had existed just three weeks earlier…was gone. Replaced with a somber, melancholy soul, whose physic and intellectual distinction was morphed, maybe not for the better, but different all the same.

His voice pierced through the silence like a bomb which whistled for an eternity, causing a dread of the moment that never seemed to come when it would, only it persisted: "Wanda?"

"Hmmm?" she hummed, nonchalantly, trying to cover her precepts of abnormality.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he didn't pause for an answer, "Because I do." The confidence in his voice faded as he continued. "Oh, yes I do, because one won't leave me alone." The tone was becoming slower and more dismayed. "He taunts me, taunts me everywhere I go. He beleaguers me, and he won't stop, he can't stop. He's all around me, day and night, but I don't fear him, because... I am him."

There was a long paused as the rain continued to crackle against the glass and washed down the house. Wanda didn't know what to say, what could she say? How do you reply to a statement like that without sounding like you thought he was insane? But she managed to, "Timmy," her voice the one of a mother who just heard her child state that the boogeyman man is under their bed, "there's no such thing as ghosts."

Timmy suddenly talked, as if he had come out of a trance, his voice normal and aware, "I'm sorry, Wanda, you're right. It has been all of these, these…things that are happening. I just feel…odd."

Wanda saw that he had not lost his mind, perhaps it was a sign of puberty, but she wasn't entirely satisfied with his change in emotions. Still, the answer was assuasive enough for her to continue. "Timmy, just remember, you're never alone, we are always here for you. And whatever is going on, you can talk to us. OK?"

"Yeah, thanks Wanda. Goodnight." he called out curtly as Wanda then left the room. He then turned around and started to read again from an antiquated history book.

His mind dwelt on her response, as he sat and started firmly into the candle. _Bah! Why even try to explain? No use at all. I might as well expect her to understand as a person you meet on the street. And Cosmo, he might as well be a puppet_. And a realization occurred to Timmy that made shivers go up his spine: he didn't really _know _his God Parents._ Sure they knew each other, but how well? Well enough to tell them anything…no. They had god children before and they would have them again, their relationship was one of business associates, mutual until the one or the other left. _

A mixture of anxiety and dreariness descended as he stared intimately at the spouting flame. He picked up the candle and blew it out preparing to return to his cell, when thunder shook the house causing him to shake uncontrollably, causing the extinguished candle to fall to the ground. Timmy flew into a rage as he kicked blindly in the dark toward the candle, catapulting it across the room. "Damn nerves."

It wasn't Timmy's fashion to curse, to some extent, even then at 14, he had considered it a taboo of sorts, particularly around friends, especially around adults. But the circumstances that were could afford him no less an outburst. This was the fourth time that night he had dropped something due the loudness of the storm, and he had enough.

He recognized then how weary he really was. He sighed deeply as he trudged aimlessly to the door so that he could retire in his bed, alone, and undisturbed.


	4. Chapter 4

_I don't believe I have ever put this much concerted effort into a story...enoy._

Timmy _use _to act like a normal person. All his relatives and friends put a strong emphasis on _use_, because he was not the boy of 14, with a mild and sunny disposition, who went through his life without a care in the world, cheerful, goodhearted, and loved, but an old man, tempered and jagged, with a sadistic attitude to everything, racked with grief to which no one could quite comprehend it's ultimate determinant, that weighed so heavily upon him, it consumed him. His happiness now was just a cruel stare of indifference to all around him, friend or stranger alike, menacing and quite repelling. Which is why, in the course of events that proceed, by the judgment of his classmates who at first contemplated and eventually deduced, that perhaps he was going gothic, putting on the face of unhappiness to fit in, just playing a part, a new fad for acceptance, a passing event. But as time wore on the "passing event" proved more resilient than anyone could ever have fathomed. The fads changed, but Timmy didn't.

This state of mind not only scorned his emotional state, it affected him in other ways as well. A paranoia of sorts took a hold of him to the point where he was no longer satisfied with what he was told to be true , he never took anything his teacher, or anyone said as imperative fact. He felt he needed to verify and know for himself the true nature of events and thus to know first hand, and so he started to devote huge amounts of his time to research and study, which went well beyond what anyone would expect a student to do, which was to authenticate and to learn more intimately his schooling. Perhaps this was founded in a new dignity of self reliance or rooted in distrust. It would be hard to discern his true motives, although what was fact was that this new found sense of accountability had made him expand his realm of thought to conditions which were quite astounding to anyone who knew Timmy's inner reasoning. Needless to say, he excelled marvelously at his classes to the point where he no longer payed attention in class, because, quite frankly, he knew it all, to the annoyance of all his teachers, who found it hard to get along with him and his ever-questioning nature.

This presumptuous lust for learning, in turn, made him the master of his own domain, body and soul. The enlightenment of the distinctive ideas he learned hosted an unyielding bearing of a newly found conservatism in his demeanor, caused in large part by his traumatic experience. As he glazed through the hollowed pages of history, he found himself in a repeating loop of commencement about society as a whole, but especially about the war. Soon new thoughts came to mind, thoughts which he had never pondered or perplexed before. Amid this he discerned a pattern of sorts in all conflicts. _Who is the society in war who wins? The one who's strongest. And who loses? The one whose weakest. Why are they weak? They are not united. Why are they not united? Because they do no think a war will come. Why? Because they are lulled to sleep by luxury._ And so continued the vast array of why questions, leading into a vast conflict of philosophies and debates of intrigue over the causes of war, in which he at last decided simply to take the moral high road of the metaphysical realm, and adopt a shrewd and overly discerning look at society. And it gave vindication, in his mind to an aloofness from his peers. All around, he saw corruption, disrespect, and hate. And he saw the very world he lived in, become the very cause for the same type of war which he had been killed in. And it tore him to pieces.

He choose to let this new standard be his bearings on everything in life. He thus had no tolerance for frivolity, or carelessness, or idiocy of any kind, and he was quick to point it out to anyone who indulged in it. When he saw girls in the hall wearing short skirts, he scorned at their vanity, when they in turn offered their numbers on slips of paper, he simply threw them away as soon as possible. New movies came out, he didn't see them, people dated, he didn't care. And in this way he conducted himself, letting the aspects of his demeanor be filled with contempt. That's all he felt, was utter and complete contempt. Contempt for the same nation, which was doing the same things that caused civilizations to crumble into dust, the same blatant of moral decadency, which he deduced ran so rampant, because the mundane had become to norm, and no one simply cared.

Reflecting back in hindsight, as he often did, he couldn't remember what captivating charm that he ever saw in his once beloved: Trixie Tang. For once he regarded her as a goddess in human form, now she only appeared to him as just another girl, an insecure and flamboyant girl, who cherished the euphoria of being in the center everybody's affairs. This was the epitome of what Timmy saw as wrong in a society, which quite drastically caused him to break away from her and made him garner less and less respect for her until his association with her was that of an...acquaintance. However, this decision was, for the most part, inconsequential, because, to the limit of Trixie's perception and what it could afford her to be, was that the state of affairs was still the status quo, and that nothing has changed at all. Thus, she simply was like a dream, that was as vivid and perceptible as any reality in slumber, then upon waking, it cannot be recollected.

They would see each other, of course. They had to, there was no way around it; they shared 2 out of 4 classes. And so their existences were noticed, but not harkened on to. Every once in a while they saw each other, he would smile, shake her hand, say hello ; all whilst making a slight bowing motion. She on the while, kept on the appearance of disinterest, fidgeting in her pockets, or looking at her cell phone until Timmy, who was putting on a charade of courtesy, decided to make his graceful exit from her personal space. Only to be then, surrounded by her crowd of worshipers, who formed a boundary around her, making the path of conversation impossible.

Though Timmy himself didn't care about one girl's clique, what really bothered him was that no one would talk to him. He didn't simply find himself banned from one group, but all. He suddenly found himself blacklisted, cut out off from being introduced or associated with anyone. Even his friends, who at this point, were dealt the final straw, in the excessively large pile of hay, which finally broke the camel's back, then smothered him to death. They had proceeded to make a clean dismemberment, and brushed away all signs that they had ever known him. They didn't talk to him, they didn't confront him, and they most of all didn't like him. When Timmy finally figured out that was the state of affairs, he was embittered at his friends, which he thought were his honest friends, for turning their back on him, not only to save their own social careers (which were absolutely meaningless in Junior High) but also because they had preformed this monstrous betrayal in such a sinister and cowardly way. Timmy, not one to be discouraged easily though, despite what he had been through, still retained his since of witty humor, as he laughed under his breath, "The next generation of politicians."

That, in particular, was one of the things Timmy had come to view as a symbol of society's downfall: politics. Especially school politics, which were just as, if nor more, complicated than the real kind. It is the art of keeping everyone happy, and keeping your image decent in front of your constituents, and Timmy was fed up with it. Having to apologize, because some partner on an important assignment is incompetent, or constantly sending text messages, during the middle of lectures or classes, to keep continually going over the churning relationships or lack thereof and the social networking system, which kept everyone in touch at all time. It was all too overwhelming, and at worst a distraction for Timmy, so he simply didn't participate in this game of "knowing" that every teenager plays. He never carried a cellphone (a great deal of relief to his parents), and he never involved himself on: MySpace or Facebook. In the end, it was shrewd decision, but one that only further his lack of friends predicament in the first place.

To that end; however, there was more to it than merely the masses of texting teenagers, just like real politics, there were the extortionist. The people, around the school, who pestered or threatened the lower grades to get money or allegiances, or to enforce their will on lower level cliques, much like the feudal system of old. One of, if not, the biggest, was still Francis. However, he had changed his tactics to a changing environment. His strategy, which he learned at his history class, oddly enough, was that of Teddy Roosevelt' big stick. That was, he didn't have to threaten or hurt people, directly, he simply needed to have the most power at any given time. So he surrounded himself with "friends" who were more or less: 'buddies for hire' to follow him around, all the time. The group was composed of a few coming from the lower classes, which is to say they were poor, but most were the crème de la crème of the popular estate, consisting of football players and weight lifting athletes who were self described brutes.

Francis made sure he had two on him at any one given time, and went around simply asking in a sincere tone,: "Do you have any cash?". To which the participant could either fork over the money, or get beaten within an inch of unconsciousness after school. It was when this happened to Timmy where he decided to take action in his own hands.

It was during lunch, on a lovely spring afternoon of no importance. The students lounged around, haphazardly at the tables in the cafeteria, while most retreated outside for a brief ten or twenty minutes to do anything in this vast open space next to the school. This span of area was about the same area as three football fields side by side of each other. Three football fields of gravel, grass, dirt, roots, sand, and some large trees which occupied a small knoll on the left side.

Though this place was not designed for any specific purpose in mind, it technically belonged to the school and suited the job quite promptly as a recreation area. It was practical as well, because, despite the distance, the land was flat and there was no place to conceal from the slightest wanderings of just one passing eye. Which made it impossible for any wayward student to skip class.

It was in this field where Timmy found himself sitting, in one of the large crevasse in the base of an older spruce tree, ideal for sitting, because the earth underneath formed into a imitation of a chair cushion. It was one of the few solitary places were Timmy could put his mind at ease, avoiding all the stress of all the other environments. No one realizes, until you've been alone, how wonderful silence can be, just the quiet lull of bird subtly tweeting and the wind blowing.

His appearance was significantly different from his previous attire which he had worn practically all his life. He had abandoned his jeans, in favor of a pair of rather old _steingrau _pants, which, although he had not harbored any animosity towards jeans, he had decided to wear, simply because they breathed better. These pants, however, were more than just clothing, they were a piece of himself. Because, in a week or so prior, he had wished himself to the very place were he had been, almost 100 years previously.

When he arrived, via wishing, he observed what had once been a large and barren field of barbed wire and death, was now gentle meadow of grass. He saw the very place he had buried himself in the area, though it was hard to find, as time was slowly turning the trenches which use to be over 15 feet tall into small ditches running through the countryside. It was, a peculiar sight to Timmy, who had associated this place with such violence, only to see it as a serene ambiance. The kind of feeling when you feel sad and joyous at the same time.

He couldn't move for moments but finally took a deep breath and started into were once _his_ trenches. Though they were not as deep as they used to be a person could walk in one of these crevasses and not be seen by anyone overhead. They still bore reminder of the past; wood from barricades still lined parts of the earth, though it was rotted now by a 100 years of rain and termites. As Timmy, continued down this bizarre tunnel of bewilderment with Cosmo and Wanda who were right behind him, he saw something glisten on the floor of the trench ahead of him. He went to it and started digging the caked dirt around it, there he unearthed spectacles, somebodies reading glasses abandoned or forgotten in the trenches. He eagerly showed it to a just as excited Cosmo and Wanda who poofed the items back to his house. As he continued he kept finding things, things like: bullets, canteens, buttons, shoe laces, knives, and event a rifle, which was simply lying against there, undisturbed, bayonet affixed.

Timmy picked up the Mauser rifles and looked at down the sights, "Who'd ya suppose this belonged to?" Timmy asked, as he pulled back the rusted bolt.

"Beats me." said Cosmo.

"Funny, how a person would leave an entire rifle here." He pointed the gun over the trench and pulled the trigger. The mechanism cranked, in less than a second and the gun exploded hand. Sending the projectile screaming in to the sky. Timmy screamed and dropped the gun and ran into the opposite side of the trench as Cosmo and Wanda starting laughing uncontrollably at what just occurred. When he hit the opposite side, the earth collapsed around his weight as he fell into a dark hole.

All around him was darkness. But from the little natural light coming from the hole he could tell the rough dimensions of the room. He groaned as Wanda called out from the hole: "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, that just caught me off guard, come in here."

The two magical beings proceeded inside the cavern and illuminated it with their wands and were horrified at what they saw. "Oh my God! Look!" yelled Cosmo.

There, sitting in a wooden chair, was the remains of a German soldier. All his clothing and features all the folds of the clothes contouring to his body, all the flexed muscles, and been perfectly preserved by the peat that was the result of so much mud and rain. Timmy look astonished at the man who sat in front of him.

He was thin, tall and lanky, with slightly large arms. His insignia was that of an enlisted man, and so was his helmet, which was the steel Stahlhelm. His arms dangling to the ground and his face and eyes were looking upward, as if staring at something coming from heaven, as if he saw the end coming.

Timmy cautiously approached the body and pulled the dog tag off the encrusted man. The dog tag indicated that he was a: 'Private H. Muller, of the 106th light infantry from Bavaria.'

When he read it aloud he put in back on the body and decided to leave as soon as possible, which is exactly what his Godparents wanted to do. But before he left he spied something in the corner. There amid the broken boards was a crate, inside the crates neatly folded, and looking not a day younger from when they had come off the assembly line were 20 or so full infantry uniforms. With boots, stacked in a rack at the bottom.

It was an amazing find for Timmy, who couldn't let it go to waste. Despite the best intentions of his Godparents, he took a full uniform for himself. The pants he wore now, were those same ones he had found in the bunker. Though he wanted to wear the jacket as well, he couldn't, he would instantly be recognized as very unusual and would ridiculed, it was also, against the dress code. Put the pants, though old in style, were discreet enough to wear to school. Which he did whenever he got the chance.

The rest of his clothing was generic. He usually wore an anonymous t-shirt, plane colored, usually something that would not make the vast color difference in his pants and in his shirt stick out too bad.

And so he sat there, under the tree, for the first time in a long time, he could put his mind at ease. When the looming shadow of the tyrant cast its form onto his face, blocking the sun, Timmy opened his eyes to see Francis standing over him with two of his thugs by his side. With eyes closed and an open palm he asked the question, "Do you have any cash?"

Timmy felt for a moment, somewhat obligated to hand him what he wanted. But he realized with a firm sense of self-pride that he would not be trampled upon, by anyone, anymore. So he, frowned, stopped up and looked Francis square in the eye and said "No I don't, you bastard. Now go away!, You're blocking my sun."

Francis didn't wait another moment. He simply turned around and started walking away calmly. Timmy's mind was put into an immediate fight or flight. He balled his fist as he watched his walking away. His feet suddenly took flight as he ran to his oppressors, determined to shake this foe and now forever.

It all happened so fast. He grabbed Francis' shoulder and hauled him with all his might backward causing him to land on the ground. Without a moment's hesitation Timmy brought his foot down on Francis' chest causing the wind to be knocked out of him. He proceeded to kick one of the thug's shin as they had turned around to see their boss being toppled and started to throw attacks. He one on the light came in to get him in a headlock, Timmy punched him throat before his arm was all the way around causing him to start stumbling choking for air, then shouldering the one on the right in his face.

The right thug beat a hasty retreat as his two comrades lay indisposed. Timmy clasped his fist in his hand, with a feeling of victory. But the consequences of that victory were yet to be determined...


	5. Chapter 5

The light of the afternoon sun glared through the window of the school's main office, casting forlorn and eerie beams of light over the glossed walls which sparkled to the eyes giving the room a semblance of happiness. Something which became a poignant and spiteful contradiction when anybody realized they were in the middle of a deadly crucible instead of an office. A crucible laced with molten lead, brimming from the fiery gates of Hades, it's rancorous onslaught capable of melting the hardest of student's opposition and causing the strongest bowels to weaken. This was of course, the most feared level of hell for any student in the school, regardless of age or grade, who never dared report anything there unless it was earth shattering. And the one of who conducted it all, the head inquisitor, the dastardly devil, the tyrannical turpitude that conducted it all was the mighty _Rex Imperator _and final authority on all educational matters: the principal.

She was for the most part, not an impressive figure. She was a black woman; thin, lanky, and legs that were dis-proportioned from the rest of her body in length and height. She possessed little in the way of "physical beauty"; her hair was short and spiked, her face bones were high, and she rarely wore makeup. This, however; was not a handicap for this self described 'self-made woman' named: Louella Dicks. No,her charisma made up for any physical set back she had; and many would think, at first glance, she was a mild and tempered person, on the contrary, she took a 'take no prisoners' policy when it came to the functions of her school. Though she was not a physically threatening person, she lured students in with a deceptive facade of kindliness, listening to problems and commingling , so that whenever she got a chance, and much like a Venus fly trap, ate the souls of those unhappy victims who would disrupt her smooth running machine, whenever it may arise, using that level of intimacy to tear their guilt out in a smooth confession. This made her the ultimate purveyor of justice; feared and loved by all, with magnanimous and unanimous respect.

This was not true for the teachers, especially the senior teachers, who looked at the 28 year principal as a parvenu, an up and comer, and an amateur at worst. Though they still went along and gave her the same amount of respect any teacher has to give to their boss, they did not harbor a friendship. Theirs was a bit of a fun-poking, giving hidden, sarcastic remarks, that if not cleverly hidden against a wall of complicated words, were insults in their outright. Louella, approached this lively, and gave her smiles, and compliments, but harbored a deep suspicion over her staff. That is why she felt she needed to handle affairs with the utmost pugnacity, otherwise she might find her "friends" suggest demotions for unordered and unofficial conduct. This occurrence was no exception, and she treated this with the utmost seriousness.

It was she, who know presided over this, "trial" which was now taking place in her office. She sat at her large oak desk, massaging her temples in a slight annoyance as she delegated for a moment. She had been given the rest of the day off by the superintendent, and far needed relief, but now it would seem as though she was going to miss that opportunity due to the off-timelessness of the occurrence, which she had heard only fragments of from worried and despondent voices of teachers, talking over walkies-talkies which every staff member carried around with them. The garbled chat of teachers talking to other teachers continued on the devices as she exhaled deeply.

On her left, sitting in three linen chairs, were the purveyors of violence who tormented the school every day. Moaning and holding their wounds despondently as though they were dying. Some had bandages and clothes, slightly smeared with blood, and some where holding their limbs, trying to cradle their wounds. To her front, standing steadfast, with a serious look, almost too serious even compared to the principal was Timmy. He stood at attention, his arms by his side, and his shoes clunked together. His shirt was dirty, covered in a thin layer of dust, with a few chunks of miniscule dirt as well. A sight that under normal scrutiny and justice would be mean he was the condemned, and so she began her investigation, because as everyone always knows, normal justice is never "normal".

Her voice was firm and true, "Timmy, you know the consequences of starting a fight."

Timmy knew he was entering a dangerous minefield. He had to traverse it with the utmost care. One wrong word, one subtle emotion, one teaming reaction; could mean the difference between guilty and innocent, and Timmy knew it. Luckily, his years of lying to his parents had taught him the peculiar art of deception known as acting. And so he knew all the reactions necessary to feign innocence. He began by lifting his hands, upward, toward his chest with palms toward the principal, in a "Don't throw that on me" gesture, it was vital to selling his despondency. "Hey! I didn't do anything to start it!" He made his voice sound confused and defensive, in an elaborate ruse to make sure the guilty were punished.

"Really?" he voice was heavy with disbelief, "Then who did?"

"He did!" he pointed to Francis, who was staring at the principal, shaking his head like he had no idea what he was talking about.

"Okay," she scoffed, "Tell me what happened?"

"Gladly," Timmy said with more than a hint of satisfaction, "I was outside, minding my own business, sitting under the tree as I always do. When, this..." he let his tongue crisper with hate "thug, got up with his friends over there and started hitting me. What was I suppose to do? Nothing? No, before they almost broke my arm I let loose on em' and threw then down, all in self defense."

Louella smiled, figuring she knew he was lying, "Really Timmy? You don't have a scratch on you? How did they start it?"

Timmy's mind raced wildly, not knowing what to do, but he remembered. He pulled up his shirt revealing a large circular bruise that was very dark. It had been where the rifle had exploded, but who would think a 15 year old would have a rifle?

Louella gasped in surprise at the heinous wound. Timmy pulled down the sleeve, as though it was nothing. "Yes, _I _haven't been hurt." Timmy said. "That's just a scratch you know."

Louella looked at the three boys who were sitting in their chairs. "How could you do that?"

"We didn't!" Francis said, "We didn't lay a finger on him."

"_Yeah, right!"_ Timmy replied bitterly.

The accusations went back and forth, until Louella disrupted the verbal melee. "Enough! The only thing left to do is to get somebody who was there to tell us what happened, as we can't all get along, like nice children. No go on! Back to your classes, all call you all before the bell rings!"

They all left the principals office, single file, making sure not to get within 5 cm of their respective personal spaces. When Timmy stepped out into the hall, he was met with thunderous calamity which arose from all the classrooms.

Children sprang from their desks, while class was still going, and all huddled around the doors, cheering and waving at the new hero.

**Sorry for the delay. I just go my computer back and I've been having so much fun, I forgot to keep writing.**


	6. Chapter 6

Timmy rejoiced mentally the rest of the day. It was a victory. A hard won victory at that. He was mentally exhausted from the sheer exuberance needed to pull that off. _Who says actors don't work?_ But the reward he received afterward was well worth the strain. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, and everyone wanted to know him. It was, for the first time, in a long time, Timmy felt loved. So numerous was the crowd they could hardly be contained. In breaks it was near impossible to break them up for class.

Timmy's demeanor was happy, well-spirited, as if victory had finally came. He walked out after school thinking he was on top of the world, _on top of the world..._

Life is hard. And to say it's forgiving, is a falseness. For at that moment, a car, barreling out of nowhere crushed the young Turner, ending his brief life.

Everyone was shocked. Such a death was unwarranted and highly undeserving of such a man. The tragedy had one glimmering ray of happiness for those who saw the lifeless body. He face was of euphoria, with a slight exuberant smile. Almost as if he was happy the end had _finally_ come. And that, in his one moment before death wrapped his fingers on the young man_, that all was calm, and all was right._


End file.
